


Porcelain, Ivory, Iron.

by Pfalz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post - A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:36:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1983282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pfalz/pseuds/Pfalz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Davos has stumbled upon Sansa and smuggled her north to King Stannis who is fighting for Jon Snow’s claim to Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for round 10 in the got_exchange.

Snow landed on her hair as she walked silently through the forest, only Ser Davos by her side. _Don’t be afraid, you’re going home,_ Sansa tried to tell herself. _But my home is gone. Father, Mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, even Arya._ She raised her hood to keep out some of the cold. _This is exactly what I wished for; why does it feel so hollow?_

Sansa couldn’t recall the last time she had ever felt so cold. She wondered how miserable Jon must be at the Wall. _Uncle Benjen always used to say Winterfell felt like Dorne compared to Castle Black. But he’s dead now too._

Sansa saw the outline of a snowy, desolate fortress on the horizon.

“Wait,” she said to Ser Davos. _We’re actually here._ Sansa stopped to stare at the icy walls of Winterfell.

She couldn’t stop the tears from welling in her eyes. _It’s so close, yet I’ve never felt further away._

“We have to keep moving Sansa. We don't want to be spotted by one of Lord Bolton's patrols.”

She looked away, her boots now soaked from the snow. She followed in behind Ser Davos, trying to forget all the suffocating memories.

-

Ser Richard Horpe led them through the encampment in the early morning fog. Ser Davos and Ser Richard were talking, but Sansa tried not to concentrate on them. The whole camp looked bleak and harsh. Nothing like what she remembered from the tourneys of King’s Landing.

One of the soldiers raked his eyes over her body like she was completely naked and Sansa felt sick, moving quickly in closer behind Davos. _They won't hurt me... I hope._

Sansa tucked her arms in to keep warm, though it still didn’t stop her from shivering. She was wearing the white and grey dress she stitched on the sea voyage north, _the colours of House Stark._ Sansa chose the most regal dress she had for King Stannis, but it wasn't exactly suited for the cold, especially considering the cloak she had managed to bring when Davos smuggled her out of The Fingers had torn just the night before.

Ser Davos was the unlikeliest man Sansa could have ever hoped to rescue her. Even though he had been raised to knighthood, Davos still dressed humbly and spoke in a thick Flea Bottom accent. They had hardly spoken to each other the entire time; the few times they did it was awkward and short. But she was grateful for all that he had done for her and he somewhat comfortingly reminded her of her father.

Sansa recalled what Ser Davos had promised her, “ _King Stannis will bring you home.”_

_Father always used to say Stannis Baratheon was a just man. Just, but harsh. He died supporting Stannis’ claim. But when I prayed for King Stannis to win the Battle of Blackwater, to save me from the Lannisters, he never came._

_I don’t even want to rule Winterfell_. _I just want things to be the way they were, though they never will be. Why did Theon do it?_ Sansa wondered. _How did he feel when he killed Bran and Rickon and burned our home?_

She followed Ser Richard and Ser Davos into the king’s pavilion.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stood alone, staring over a map of the North laid out upon a table, a red and gold crown resting atop his head. He turned towards his guests as he heard them approach, revealing a stag emblazoned in a heart of fire upon on his armor.

_Stannis Baratheon._

Sansa already felt unnerved. He towered over her, with a rugged black beard and a gaunt face.

“Your Grace.” Davos quickly dropped to his knee.

“Rise, Ser Davos,” he stated in a deep and powerful voice. “Who is the girl?”

“Lady Sansa, Ned Stark’s daughter,” Ser Richard answered with a smirk on his pox-scarred face.

“Your Grace.” Sansa curtsied, but she couldn’t stop herself from trembling a little as the King gazed at her, his jaw clenched, cold and austere. His dark blue eyes were focused on her, but they went through her as if she wasn’t even there. _Courtesy is a lady’s armor,_ Sansa tried to reassure herself.

“Lady Stark.” He paused for a moment, grinding his teeth. “Your father was an honorable man.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Sansa tried to force a smile. _It still hurts to think about._ She paused, pushing the thought out of her head. “Thank you as well, Ser Davos, for rescuing me.” Davos returned her smile.

“He was only doing his duty,” Stannis said. “House Stark has endured more than enough.” Sansa’s eyes flickered across his face and she felt she didn’t have to force her smile quite as much anymore. _Maybe father was right._

“If Ser Davos didn’t arrive when he did, Lord Baelish would have...” Sansa’s face set, the little bit of hope she had felt already escaping her. “He killed Harrold, so he could control The Vale himself… and then he wanted to take me-” the words caught in her throat, “-take me as his wife.” _He forced me to kiss him and made me call him father._

"Every man shall reap what he has sown, Lady Stark. Littlefinger will pay the traitor’s price, you have my word on that,” Stannis responded in a voice of iron. _How sweet it would be if I knew he really would. If I knew my nightmare would finally be over. But I know better now than to trust anybody’s word. Heroes do not exist._

“That is very honorable of you, Your Grace,” Sansa said prettily.

King Stannis scowled, his jaw clenched even tighter than before. Sansa wondered if he was always so grim, then she remembered Davos mentioning his wife had passed away and his sad little mourning daughter with a face scarred by greyscale. Sansa suddenly felt a bit of sympathy for him. _Maybe he has just forgotten how to be happy, like I have._

Stannis turned his back to them and studied the map upon his table. “I’d like to speak to Lady Sansa alone.”

Sansa looked at Ser Davos anxiously, but he just gave her a quick nod and departed with Ser Richard.

“Sit,” Stannis said as he unbuckled his sword belt and placed it on the table.

Sansa hesitantly complied, too scared to ask why they had to be alone.

Stannis turned and faced her. He paused, weighing out the words he was about to speak. “I made a pact with your brother; he is no longer Jon Snow, but Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell. We agreed that if you were found… unspoiled, that you would become my Queen.”

He scowled. “Tell me the truth, did the Imp force himself on you?”

“What- No.” Sansa bit her lip to stop it from trembling. “I’m a maiden. Please don’t-” she had to close her eyes so the tears wouldn’t trickle down her cheeks.

When she opened them, she saw he was still gazing at her, still grinding his teeth, still as intimidating as before. “Please don’t send me back,” she sniffled, unable to meet his eyes. _My betrothed’s eyes…_ She didn’t want to imagine returning to King’s Landing. _As alone as before._

“You have nothing to fear from me, Lady Sansa. Nobody will hurt you as long as I live.” His voice was cold.

Sansa stared at the ground, the silence between them deafening. It was all she could do to not start crying.


	2. Stannis

Stannis sat in his pavillion, wiping down the blade of Lightbringer. One gloved hand ran along the sharp edge, his fingers pressing the cloth down. Stannis ground his teeth idly, brooding over his previous meeting with Sansa. _How did Jon convince me to agree to this?_

_“She’s only a child!”_ he had protested to him.

_“Sansa always dreamed of being Queen,”_ Jon had responded stiffly.

_“Don’t flatter me. I’m no maiden’s fantasy.”_

_“I’ll tell you the hard truth. The rest of the northern lords won’t risk their lives just to put you on the throne. They fought for your brother because of Lyanna. They will fight for you because of Sansa.”_

Those were the words that made him begrudgingly accept. Stannis knew that Jon was right. He wouldn’t be able to convince the northerners to march south unless they had something to gain.

_“Sansa is also… she’s very pretty.”_ Jon was not wrong about that; Sansa was _beautiful_. Even though he hated to admit it, he couldn’t deny the truth. Stannis pictured himself running his hands through her soft, red hair, but he bitterly pushed the thought out of his mind. _I’m not Robert and she is half my age!_

Stannis even had Maester Pylos inspect her; Sansa had told him the truth. She was a maiden. He had a duty to fulfil for Jon, for The North, for his Kingdom. _No matter my own reservations, I have to stick to my word._

The cloth landed lightly on the table as Stannis released it, resting beside Lightbringer. _But I was too late for her sister._

Theon managed to escape with Arya, but she was only a frozen corpse by the time they arrived at Stannis’ camp. Jon was so devastated that he could not look at her or attend her funeral. _Sansa did not have to be here for that, at least._

_If Theon did one thing right, it was capturing Winterfell._ In fact, that was the only reason he hadn’t executed him the moment he arrived. Theon might be more useful alive than dead. He had sent Jon and his best soldiers to flank Winterfell and attack while Stannis distracted them with the main force of his army. _Theon only had only twenty men, yet he managed to take Winterfell. Jon will have no trouble against Ramsay; he has one hundred._

He stood up and sheathed Lightbringer. Stannis let the tent flap close behind him, and the snow crunched underneath his boots. Ser Richard Horpe was standing sentry outside his pavillion.

“Call our banners, we will march on Winterfell by nightfall.”

-

Sansa stood by his side, her arm timidly wrapped around his, the soft white silk of her dress in stark contrast to his black maille.

They had not spoken since they first met each other yesterday morning, but Davos had urged him to spend time with his betrothed. Her weeping disconcertingly reminded him of Shireen, and he hardly had the patience for a lady’s empty courtesies. Alas, he supposed it could be worse. Davos had commented she was kind and diligent, even after everything the Lannisters and Littlefinger had made her endure.

Sansa’s touch was warm and he found that, strangely, it was almost comforting sharing the silence with her. Sansa’s hair blew gracefully in the wind, making her appear as regal as his Queen ought to.

Stannis untucked his arm from hers. He hesitated, wondering how she would react, then moved a windswept lock of her auburn hair into place.

“Your Grace?” Sansa’s voice trembled softly.

He clenched his jaw and focused his gaze on her bright blue eyes which would not meet his.

“Do I not please you, Your Grace?” she asked after some time, her eyes fluttering across the snowy ground around them.

Stannis did not respond. Instead, he brushed his hand against her cheek as gentle as he could manage. She flinched lightly at his touch but did not resist. _You are very beautiful, Lady Sansa,_ he answered silently.

Sansa bit her lip, her cheeks flushing a shade lighter than her hair.

Stannis dropped his hand to her shoulder. “I know you will not love me. I will never ask you to. I only expect you to do your duty.”

“I want to be a good wife to you, Your Grace,” she said sweetly. “You have been so kind to me.”

Sansa raised her eyes from the snowy ground to his face. Stannis thought he saw a faint smile on Sansa’s lips as she met his gaze.

-

His forces marched forward to the southern gate of Winterfell, the battering ram smashing against the outer gate, making ice fall from the walls above.

Arrows rained from the sky. One landed a few feet in front of Stannis, lodging itself into the ground. Stannis ripped it out of the ground and split it in two, the shards disappearing into the heavy snowfall.

The banners were blowing violently in the wind, the emblazoned stag alongside the direwolf.

Stannis turned his destrier to face his men. He clenched his jaw and spoke. “When the sun rises, I promise you, Winterfell will be ours!”

He unsheathed Lightbringer and raised it above him. “OURS IS THE FURY!”


	3. Jon

“My lord, we’ve just received news from His Grace.”

“Is it time?” Jon asked him. Ghost sat in the snow, panting and staring at the newcomer.

“Yes, my lord, but there is something else.” The messenger paused. “Ser Davos Seaworth is alive. He smuggled Lady Sansa from The Vale and she is to be married to King Stannis once Winterfell is captured.”

_Sansa?_ To be honest with himself, Jon hadn’t even thought of Sansa, once so pretty and innocent, at all since he accepted Stannis’ offer of legitimization. _Is Sansa safe? Does she hate me for betrothing her to Stannis without her consent?_ He wanted to ask the messenger, but he knew that he wouldn’t have an answer.

He motioned the messenger away, too dazed to speak. _Did the Lannisters torture her like Ramsay did Arya?_ The thought made Jon sick. After he had seen what Theon turned into, the traitor that he was, death would be a blessing.

Jon gripped his fist tightly and ordered his soldiers with him, marching on the northern gate of Winterfell.

He had to squint to keep the snow from blowing into his eyes, the thrashing of the wind drowning out his thoughts.

-

His hand grabbed the top of the battlements and he pulled himself up. Jon dropped the grappling hook and unsheathed Longclaw. His hand felt numb as he gripped its hilt, but he held on as tightly as he could manage.

Jon gazed at the flying banners of House Bolton, House Manderly, and House Ryswell in the empty courtyard as he approached the Broken Tower. He ran down the steps, flanked by half of his men, and entered the courtyard. “Get to the southern gate and open it for King Stannis!” he ordered his troops.

Jon looked at the charred ruins which were now Winterfell. _Did I make the right choice, Father?_ The thought that Winterfell was his should have made him feel proud, but instead, he couldn’t feel anything at all as he stood alone in its courtyard.

The sounds of a war horn cut off his thoughts. Ramsay Bolton rode in on horseback, throwing the horn into the snow.

“Bastard,” Ramsay muttered under his breath as he dismounted.

“I want my bride and my Reek back, Bastard.” He unsheathed his sword, holding it as if it were a meat cleaver. “Hand them over and I might even let you live. Keep them from me, and I will cut out your bastard's heart and eat it.”

Jon raised Longclaw in front of him, gripping his hand firmly on the hilt. “You raped Arya…”

Jon charged at Ramsay and cut at him with Longclaw, but Ramsay met his strike. “I raped her, I flayed her,” he smiled, “I even let my dogs have her once I was bored.”

With his off-hand, Ramsay punched Jon in the gut and he fell to the ground, releasing Longclaw from his grip.

The blade of Ramsay’s sword pressed against Jon’s face. “You’re not very bright, now are you, Bastard?”

Jon gripped Ramsay’s sword by the foible, parrying it to the side, pushing the sword to the ground, throwing Ramsay off balance. Jon tried to get to his feet but Ramsay regained his balance and tackled him. Jon grabbed Ramsay's shoulders and turned him over, smashing Ramsay’s head into the cold ground.

His fist pounded against Ramsay’s face over and over again until only a bloody pulp remained. He rose to his feet and grabbed Longclaw. He thrust it through Ramsay’s chest, staining the snow on which his motionless body lay a dark red.

Blood and tears were dripping from Jon’s face when he watched Bolton soldiers storm the courtyard, the men he had sent to open the gates apparently beaten back.

“A bastard killed a bastard...” A soft, yet familiar voice spoke. “Take his head and be done with it. This madness has been going on for far too long.”

Lord Bolton approached him, his pink cloak flapping in the wind.

“What have you done, boy?” he asked, but somehow Jon knew he wasn’t supposed to respond as he was kicked to his knees.

Jon raised his head at the sound of the gates opening. Two dozen knights charged in, holding the banners of an emblazoned stag, cutting down the Bolton infantry one by one.

He collapsed into the snow.

-

Embers sparked in the fireplace as Jon warmed his hands, being careful not to set his bandages aflame. He turned his attention at the sound of a voice.

“Jon!” Ser Davos stood in the doorway of his chambers. “Or should I say, Lord Jon Stark,” he added with a smile.

“Ser Davos.” Jon motioned him in before he turned back to the fire.

“The wedding will take place tonight, my lord,” Davos said. “Have you had a chance to speak with your sister yet?”

Jon frowned. “No.” He trusted Stannis with Sansa, in fact, he was probably the only man who he could trust his sister to _. Though I never expected this to actually happen, it was only a move to help Stannis gain support amongst the lords of the North._

“What changed your mind- about becoming Lord of Winterfell?” Davos asked, idly gripping his shortened hand.

“What would my father think of me if I didn’t?” Jon stepped away from the fire. “If I just let the Boltons sit in _our_ home, let them live after they betrayed Robb, after what _he_ did to Arya?” Jon paused.

“I broke my vows, I will never forget that... but so did my Father.”


	4. Sansa

Embers flew above the setting sky, like red snow, as Stannis wrapped their hands together with black and gold cloth. _I am not the stupid little girl with the stupid dreams now, not the daughter of a traitor, not the little bird, not Alayne Stone, but the Queen and wife of King Stannis Baratheon._

Stannis stared into the fire, the light outlining his gaunt features. He still scared her; his eyes were cold and unrelenting and he had an aura about him that was as hard and unyielding as iron.

She dropped her eyes to the snowy ground as he turned. Sansa knew that her true wedding would not be a cruel, unconsummated mockery like her marriage to Tyrion was; they said that Stannis was uncompromising, a man devoted to duty. She could hardly imagine him sparing her on their wedding night. _Stannis has been kind to me, he executed Roose Bolton, he returned Winterfell to my brother… but there will be no love, he even said so himself._

Sansa had always dreamed of her entire family being at her wedding: Mother and Father, Robb, Bran and little Rickon, even Arya would be there, wearing a pretty dress and acting courteously for once. But she forced herself to stop thinking about it, before the tears found way to her eyes and ruined the faintest hope she had of a happy marriage with King Stannis.

Sansa swallowed and smiled at her husband. “Shall we go, Your Grace?”

He nodded and Sansa gripped his forearm as they departed from the burning banners and entered the great hall.

-

Sansa silently sat at the high table with her husband. The King only glared at the court and barely even looked at her. She had put so much effort into perfecting her dress, stupidly hoping that she might be able to make Stannis love her. The time he had caressed her cheek only seemed like a strange dream _. Life is not a song, I should know that by now._

All throughout the feast she felt a sense of foreboding, knowing that the bedding would come… what would happen afterwards. Sansa had once hoped that her wedding day would be the best day of her life; she was not so naive anymore, but truth be told, she was still frightened of her future, of her husband.

Soon enough she would be shipped off to King’s Landing, to the place where her dreams were torn to shreds in front of her eyes, to be queen in front of the same lords and ladies who had let the Lannisters torture and humiliate her, to be wife to a man whom she could barely even look in the eye.

She had tried asking her brother for advice but it only made her more nervous.

_“I remember when you tried to teach me how to talk to girls… Now you’re asking me to teach you how to talk to Stannis.”_ Jon laughed.

Sansa had tried to explain, but Jon only laughed again. _“Don’t worry, Sansa. He will treat you well.”_ She wondered if he even believed the words himself, but she was interrupted before she could decide.

“It’s time for the bedding!” one knight drunkenly declared.

“Aye!” A few other knights and lords called out in approval. Sansa froze when she felt their lecherous eyes undress her the same way Lord Baelish’s had. Without noticing, she clung her hand to Stannis’ forearm. Sansa looked at her husband pleadingly; she was nervous enough already, if she had to endure her beautiful dress being torn and the disgusting jokes and the memories she had tried so hard to forget…

Stannis rose from his seat. “Enough!” The few lords still clamoring in approval turned silent at the sound of his voice. “There will be no bedding, I will not have Queen Sansa disgraced in that way.”

One knight had the nerve to protest but the growls of her brother’s white direwolf cut him off.

Stannis stiffly offered his arm and escorted Sansa to their chambers. She smiled weakly at Lord Jon, Ser Davos, Princess Shireen, and all the lords who strangely seemed to respect her husband’s decision.

As they exited the great hall, Sansa gave one last look to her brother; if it was pity or hope she was looking for, she didn’t know, but his eyes trailed to the floor.

-

Their bed chambers were cold as she stepped inside, her arm still tightly clutched to her husband’s.

The room was almost empty. Their bed only had simple designs embroidered on the sheets. At one point, she would have hated the idea of that, but right now she could hardly concentrate on the décor of the room.

Stannis led her to the bedside and released his arm from hers.

“You know what we must do?” he asked gruffly.

Sansa bit her lip. “Yes, Your Grace.”

He left her alone by the bed and walked silently to the open window. She fiddled with her necklace, hoping for him to say something more, anything, but he didn’t. Sansa had managed to keep herself composed during their wedding ceremony but now she felt like only a frightened little girl. _Like I really only am._

Sansa undid the lacings of her dress, her hands trembling. Stannis didn’t look at her the way other men would, which she was grateful for, but she couldn’t imagine a man as harsh as him being gentle to her.

Sansa flinched once she felt him rest his hand on her shoulder which was now bare other than the strap of her undergown. She bit her lip in fear of what would happen next, painfully aware that she only had one layer on.

He motioned her around. Stannis’ shift was untied, revealing his chest. Sansa tried to avert her eyes but she couldn’t help but notice how gaunt and scarred he was. Stannis moved his hand from her shoulder to the back of her head, nudging her forward.

Sansa wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do next, so she leaned in to embrace her husband, resting her head on his shoulder like she had seen Mother and Father do so many times. It almost felt comforting, his body keeping her warm from the coldness of the room. But she still couldn’t stop her lip from trembling slightly.

Stannis ran his fingers softly through her hair before he paused, taking a deep breath.

He began to carefully undo her plaits, doing his best not to pull or tug on her hair. Sansa bit her lip, trying to stay as still as possible for her husband. Sansa raised her hand to help him when one of her hairpins tangled in her hair. Her finger touched his and Sansa could feel herself blushing, though she was still too scared to see his reaction.

It only felt like a moment had passed before her hair was completely undone and her hairpins were resting on the nightstand. Stannis caressed his hand down her neck, then her arm until he grasped her hand.

Thick veins ran down the length of his forearm; her skin looked like porcelain compared to the scarred and muscled texture of his. She expected his grip to be constricting, but it wasn’t. His other hand played with a strand of her hair and Sansa decided to entwine her fingers with his like she always dreamt of doing with her husband.

Stannis dropped the strand of her hair and placed his hand under her chin, motioning her upwards. Sansa looked up, her eyes flickering across his face. She had to brace herself, but she met his hard, unrelenting gaze. _People would say Father had a cold gaze, but he was kind to Mother, to me._

He had once scared her as much as any man she had ever met, but now, after how he had undone her hair, she knew that he would be gentle to her, as gentle as he could manage. She couldn’t imagine Father, Jon, or Davos trusting a man that was cruel. _Mother had said that even she and father were strangers on their wedding night, but they came to love each other more than anything._

Stannis leaned in towards her. _Does he want me to kiss him?_ Sansa blushed at the thought. He released his hand from her chin and moved it back to her hair. She smiled a little, _he seems to like my hair, at least._

Sansa closed her eyes as they closed the distance, her heart racing in her chest. She could feel the grip of his hands tightening but not to the point of discomfort.

Their lips met. The first kiss was chaste but not entirely uncomfortable. His beard prickled her cheeks but it didn’t scratch like she was expecting it to. Stannis’ breath was clean and fresh, not stained with the smell of wine. That relieved her more than anything; she didn’t want to remember her experiences with Sandor or Tyrion or Littlefinger. Instead, it reminded her that she was safe, that her husband would protect her, that things might get better after all.

Sansa opened her eyes as their lips parted. She felt a strange fluttering in her chest as she looked up at Stannis, her heart still racing, but not only out of fear anymore.

Stannis ran the strap of her nightgown down her shoulder. She could feel herself losing composure again despite the fact she knew that this would have to happen on her wedding night.

Her undergown dropped to the floor, leaving her completely naked. Sansa’s lips began to quiver, her fear and insecurity drowning out everything. She covered herself without thinking, painfully remembering the times Joffrey ordered her beaten and stripped.

“I will not hurt you… Sansa,” he said after what felt like an eternity.

“Your Grace,” Sansa whimpered, trying to find the right words but she couldn’t, instead returning to the comfort of silence, giving him a weak smile.

Stannis put both of his arms around her, embracing her. Her cheeks flushed when she felt his chest press against her breasts. He leaned his head down to kiss his wife.

She closed her eyes again. Their tongues touched this time. His hands ran up and down her curves as they kissed, she could feel the callouses on his hands as they slid against her soft skin. Sansa felt that strange fluttering again.

Sansa dug her fingers into his shoulders and let out a little moan as their kiss deepened. His arm moved down and softly caressed her bare hips. Sansa tightened her legs together, surprised by the warmth and wetness she felt _there._

Their lips parted and Sansa opened her eyes, her heart beating rapidly in her chest.

She set her gaze to his face; his jaw was clenched, but he didn’t look quite as grim as he did during the ceremony. Sansa smiled sweetly at him; it felt as natural as breathing.

Stannis took off his untied shift and pulled back the sheets. Sansa climbed onto the bed, clinging to the linens to give herself at least some modesty.

Stannis sat down beside her, moving his hand to her shoulder, pushing away the sheets she had just covered herself with. Sansa held her breath as she remembered how gentle he was when he touched her hair and she managed to keep her composure this time as he lifted the linens off of her. Stannis moved his hand to her thigh, guiding her legs apart as their lips met again, his hand slowly tracing inwards.

Stannis paused and suddenly withdrew. Sansa couldn’t believe that she felt disappointed of all things. The warmth she felt was almost unbearable.

“We must do our duty now,” his words came clearly.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sansa responded softly.

“It might be painful,” Stannis commented, clenching his jaw. There was a trace of genuine kindness in his words, Sansa could tell, no matter how much he tried to make it seem otherwise.

“You’ve been gentle with me…” She smiled sweetly at him and brushed her hand against his jaw. His rough beard tickled her skin. “Stannis.” His name sounded perfect coming from her lips, even though she had never practiced by saying it into her pillow. Stannis unclenched his jaw and Sansa’s smile grew even brighter.

As he undid his trousers, Sansa looked away, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. She felt his hand return to her thighs as he guided them apart. Sansa leaned in to kiss him one last time as he guided himself in.

His lips stifled her moans as he thrust and broke her maidenhead. Sansa’s eyes welled up with tears. It hurt, but the feeling turned to pleasure as he thrust himself deeper a second time. “Stannis…” she moaned as his movements began to turn into all she could concentrate on; her fingers clinging tightly to his arms.

Stannis took her, harder, deeper still, until she squealed prettily and shivered against him. He released himself inside of her with a choked groan.

“I am yours, Stannis,” Sansa whispered into his ear, him still inside her. She kissed her husband as she realized that her nightmare was finally over. She wouldn’t be forced to spend her life with a man who hurt or abused her but with a man who would be gentle to her, who would protect her and who would give her justice for all the pain she had suffered.

The thought of returning to King’s Landing still scared her but that hardly compared to the thought - the dream - of being _his_ queen. Everything else only felt like a bitter memory to her.

Sansa parted her lips from his and Stannis brushed a lock of her auburn hair. _Maybe the monsters don’t always win... maybe heroes do exist..._


End file.
